


these walls thy sphere

by honeyvioletmoon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Awesome Howling Commandos, Bi-Curiosity, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Captain America: The First Avenger, Endgame what Endgame, Eventual Smut, Fingerfucking, First Time, Hydra (Marvel), I Blame Tumblr, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, PWP without Porn, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Homophobia, Smut, Weird Plot Shit, World War II, but stucky is forever, hydra raid, i still ship steggy, mlm, omg this feels so weird to type these tags aa, references to switzerland, slight implications of rape or non con but not from bucky obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 13:39:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19210561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyvioletmoon/pseuds/honeyvioletmoon
Summary: they flee from me that sometime did me seek with naked foot stalking within my chamber...





	these walls thy sphere

**Author's Note:**

> so..... [ my good friend](https://buckybarnsbian.tumblr.com/) convinced me I should post this because its chris' birthday. not because i think he deserves.... whatever this is. that's creepy. but i was too lazy to write something new and its almost july so happy early birthday, steve. 
> 
> i wrote this a while back to practice writing smut, which is not something i usually do but i said it was time to be a big kid author now (and yes, im over 18 for anyone else with paranoia like me that i'll get in trouble for this hshshsh) and sex is normal and nothing to have shame over, especially for the lgbt community!!! two men in love and having sex is a normal thing. well... maybe not in this plot. this is kinda random. 
> 
> title and summary are from They Flee From Me by Thomas Wyatt. lmao yes i used dramatic poetry for this weird idea hhhh
> 
> can be read as the source material bucky does not remember in chapter four of my long fic [a winter in the sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934964?view_full_work=true/) or can be read as a stand alone! this definitely isnt what i had in mind when i wrote what steve said about the "not sex" but yanno

Steve blinks back the light, a hazy film over his dry eyes. The Base Operator still appears to be lurking outside the murky glass observation window. Just his luck, it wasn't all a dream. Nightmare yes, fiction no. He's stuck in the goddamned Hydra Lab in Switzerland. He stifles a wince at the harsh brightness coating the thick musk of the sterile room, its stuffy basement placement blocking out anything clean or good, like fresh ocean air. The cramped box of a thing sits beside the Adriatic, half buried within the rock walls of a tidal inlet past the thinking forest where they set up camp up in the mountains. He'd say his superhuman ears caught the rushing of the tide against the bedrock foundation, but it would be a lie. The ringing lambasting his numb eardrums resonates from the dull cuffings the lab techs keep giving him, trying to see if they can revert him back to partial deafness as they bustle about their cleanup chores. The facility lights are not just overwhelmingly clinical, but clerical. As two sausage like fingers prise open his reluctant eyes, Steve gets a glimpse of the foreign man in charge of him, the infamous super soldier with his hands currently locked in vibranium chains. He's a shadow lit from behind with the white hot halo of an overhead lamp placed in just the right position. The added benefit is that Steve can't see his face, hasn't been able to since he arrived. He's sure it's got to be one ugly mug, but by now he's counted every crack or fleck of white paint in the roof so many times he'd give anything for some other form of visual stimulation. Tracing the lines like he would with a stick of charcoal, it's the only thing keeping the panic boiling in his belly eating straight up through his brain. The lab boys are no help because on either side of his bruised face are sleek steel blinders. He sees only the fog like form with the gravelly voice and accent thick as stew. He takes a breath, counts to ten, chants _ave maria_ , and throws his weight forward as hard as he can.   
  
Steve's as good as cooked and he knows it. He'd broken out of his restraints, and wrenched out of the grip of several guards, crushing underfoot the needle, long and lean, a German doctor had held, poised to draw his blood. His skull itches where a bruise speedily fades from when he cracked the Hydra asshole in the head. It's as he's rushing down the hallway, a muffled alarm sounding from the upper levels through the concrete ceiling, in his _underwear_ , that he spies a familiar uniform cloaking an even more acquainted set of squared shoulders. The man holds a salute as higher ups brush him aside with hard knocks of the shoulder on their way to secure their own vitality. Steve freezes, just edging around the corner, and presses flat against the wall as they pass him by. His eyes dart as far left as they can go, straining painfully. Bucky blinks at him, willing him not to react.   
  
After a moment, they're gone. Steve feels a little sick at the thought that acquiescing, stock still in the middle of the fire, to one's superiors in times of danger seems to be standard practice. And why does Bucky know that? His head flutters around his shoulders, and his knees wobble. He hasn't stood in days.   
  
"Oh fuck." Bucky rushes to catch him when he falls. "Can't you run?"   
  
Steve pants, leans against him. "Could-do this... All-"   
  
Bucky bites back a curse and his eyes dart to the ceiling. "You can't even finish your sentence." This is bad. He'll have to readapt his escape plan.   
  
"Just do as I say, got that, Stevie?" Barnes lugs Steve's monstrous arm over his shoulders, and something in the way he doesn't falter under the weight sticks in Steve's mind. Could he always do that? As they commence their hasty hobble down the hall, Steve finds he can't focus on much of anything except Bucky's wide eyes peering up into his face every so often as they turn and turn around corners. He's calling out to people, and the air smells of gunpowder and smoke. But Bucky's got him. He's always got him. He always has. Sometime after, they're waiting for an army truck inside a damp clearing that stinks of moss, and there are slumped figures against the open doorway of the Hydra plant, and littering the stretch of floor Steve can see through tired eyes. He falls asleep with his head on Barnes' shoulder, and though Gabe makes a comment about Cap "needing to stop giving himself up to spare the rest of them so they don't have to keep pulling this crap," no one tries to rouse the man or, when Bucky tucks him more comfortably cradled in his lap, stop him.   
  
He finds Bucky immediately after his release from Jim's overbearing and over scrupulous paws. Barnes' face relaxes when he sits beside him on the rocks, and observes the fine tuned way he wipes the oil cloth around the disassembled rifle.   
  
"What is it, Rogers?" He blurts, like usual, but it still rings out a bit too much like forced normalcy.   
  
The Captain shuffles his feet for a moment, eyes darting around like he expects someone to jump them from behind the sweeping canopy of trees. Behind them, the rotted out frame of a family home creaks and sways in the breeze, sagging under a light mist.

 

"There's a problem." He whispers, and Bucky's instantly alert. "Something Hydra did-"  
  
Bucky drops his gun and clenches Steve's wrist with such a force the joint starts to ache. "Tell me."   
  
Steve can't make the words come. Bucky shakes his arm slightly, insistent.   
  
" _Now_ , Steve." He thinks he's never seen Bucky look this panicked before.   
  
"They... forced me to-" He shakes his head. "They placed a-a device. I don't know how it works... It's like for planes. It makes my location show up on their radar."   
  
Bucky's grip slackens. "So I cut it out." He pushes up Steve's sleeve, eyes roaming along the pale expanse of his forearm. A knife from his boots flicks easily into his grip, a little too easily, something new about him Steve doesn't really like to acknowledge. It’s just another thing Bucky’s picked up that’s changed about him since they came to the war. Steve quivers, then tosses his head again.   
  
"It's not... There."   
  
Bucky raises his brows, daring him to try and lie. "Then where is it, punk?"   
  
Steve's lips tremble and he bites down. "Inside me. They... In my-" His hands, those gentle artist's hands, that can choke a man and tear a log in half and throw a shield made from the strongest metal known to man now, scrub across his eyes. Bucky feels cold as he realizes what Steve means. His hands become fists for a fraction of the moment, and then they're covering Steve's own, pulling them away from his face, rubbing over his shoulders.   
  
Bucky slides on a grin he doesn't feel for his best friend. Everything they did to _him_ doesn't matter a lick now that he knows what they did because Bucky didn’t rescue _Steve_ in time. He burns with the desire to hurt them all, so much he can taste it on his tongue. But Steve’s afraid, and worse, ashamed, and he’s trying to ask for help. "Ain't no thing, Steve. I can still get it out."   
  
They decide it's best to work as quickly as possible. The commandos wheedle him into a few "Congratulations on Not Dying" toasts, but Steve skips dinner with the rest of the guys, and the Colonel waves him off; after his ordeal today, no one questions his desire to be alone. His brave face can only last so long. That night, Barnes feigns as though he's going to the makeshift latrine they dug down by the rapids of the thin river, and his boots splash through the water so cold it makes his blood ache when he turns right around and beelines to the Captain's quarters.   
  
Steve looks up when he ducks inside, an oil lamp dimly burning on the table. The light's so weak his eyes can just make out the jut of his chin, but Bucky's night vision has grown a lot better as of late, something he ignores in favor of looking after Steve, just like the phantom sting against his perfectly unblemished heels that wakes him up at night. Besides, he's pretty sure he's got every version of Rogers’ profile committed to memory. Bucky could go blind tomorrow and still be able to pick Steve Rogers out of a crowd.   
  
Steve clears his throat, and Bucky startles, empty hands hanging dumbly by his sides.   
  
"So, uh, how d'ya wanna do it?" Bucky swears Steve's face colors in the dark.   
  
"Your call. Just... get it over with." Steve grimaces. Bucky nods and sits beside him on the cot. One finger traces idle shapes as the other rummages around in his jacket pocket. He tosses his coat to the floor, shimmying out of it once he produces a small jar of Vaseline pilfered from the medical kit.   
  
"Um. Turn over, and shuck your drawers."   
  
Steve does as he says, and huffs a small laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Yes sir, Indiana, sir."   
  
"Fuck you, Rogers, not my fault my da didn't conceive me in Brooklyn!" 

Both their voices sound weak.

  
"I know, I know, you were born in the same hospital as me. Could we not talk about George just now?" Steve says, as he mechanically kicks out of his pants. Bucky blushes, and promptly shuts his mouth.   
  
He unscrews the lid, and the jar seems louder in the silence of the night. They both hold their breath, and then his fingers dip over the rim, scooping up a generous amount.   
  
Bucky's hands position him correctly, nudging his legs apart with one knee. Steve shifts onto his side, so Bucky lays down behind him. As cold fingers encircle his rim, Steve tenses in reaching over to dim the lamp completely. They now exist as two entities completely void of sight and shadows. 

Bucky’s eyes seem to glow when they meet Steve’s. He can’t imagine what sort of memories this dredges up, and he’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry. What can he say? _I’m sorry I fucked up, Steve, and let you try and save us on your own. I'm sorry I let you be an idiot all these years. I'm sorry they took you and I let them when I know the kinda people they are. Sorry I wasn't there, sorry they hurt you, sorry I was too late… Sorry I never told you, and wasted all that time with all those other guys in every bar that I could find. Sorry this couldn't be a better memory._

 

"Sorry if this is cold." Bucky says, and then one digit tunnels within him. Steve's mind temporarily shuts off. It feels like every other word that runs through his head gets redacted by a rush of adrenaline, until even he doesn't know what he thinks.   
  
Gradually, Bucky pumps his finger in and out. Steve squirms a little, and a whine escapes past his clenched teeth. The finger stills immediately.   
  
"Am I hurtin' you?"   
  
Steve's head shakes back and forth, hard. "Just-Just..." He stalls, shuts his eyes. Presses his head back against Bucky's chest, hopes he'll understand the body language like he used to. It feels like everything around him has become heavier, the leaden air closing in and trapping all the heat, itchy with sweat, right beneath the skin. Bucky's member within him, sliding against his inner flesh, is the heaviest of all, and blocks all other thought but being quiet from his mind. "A lot to take in... 's all."   
  
Bucky nods, Steve can feel his chin poke against the crown of his head, and resumes. After a while, Barnes shifts, hooking his chin over Steve's shoulder, their torsos flush along the cot. Bucky's fatigues rustle against Steve's thin undershirt, those silver dog tags cool against his heated flesh.

 

"It must be deeper." He mutters, twisting the angle of his hand.

 

He moves a bit slower for a second, and Steve really relishes in the small sting accompanying the overpowering presence of his best friend's touch literally all over his body. He’s glad it blocks out any other thought trying to worm its way up to the surface; he couldn’t take his mind off Barnes if he tried. Bucky's lips are against the side of his throat as he turns his head to speak. His damp tongue flicks out and laves the skin. Steve isn't sure if Bucky realizes it happened, but another few small noises pepper out from him.   
  
"Sorry, Stevie, I... I can't grab it. Gonna have to..." He trails off, and Steve's eyes well up for a moment, with tears at the genuine softness and concern in his voice. For a moment, it's more than just Steve's every fantasy come true, it's more than something forbidden should they be discovered, Hydra plant be damned. It's Bucky, his best friend. Doing what he always does. He'd never let Steve try and figure this out alone. Steve didn't even have to think about not telling him before asking. His heart feels so full he's fit to burst. A million emotions ricochet around inside him, he’s nearly overwhelmed. Then comes a gentle pat with Bucky's other hand on his thigh, almost apologetic, and it snaps him back to the burlap tent in the present.   
  
And Bucky, slowly, tortuously slowly, presses another thick finger inside of him. Steve bites his cheek enough that the tang of blood coats his tongue; he wants to holler at Bucky, tell him to drive it home quick, that anything, even the burn of it, would be better than feeling the rough pad of his middle finger as it pushes, inch by inch, along his insides. The two digits meet just beyond his fluttering ring of muscle, and scissor back and forth, probing around. After a moment, they catch on the edge of something, and Bucky breathes out this triumphant little "aha!" against Steve's skin that sends tingles all the way down to his toes. But as he tries to pinch the device between them, his fingers scratch against something else buried within Steve. Something that makes his entire form jerk, has him lit up more glaringly than the Central Park Christmas Tree, makes him cry out loudly even as Bucky's other hand is quick to slap over his lips. Steve shakes violently, biting down on Bucky's palm, his chest heaving. His whole body feels like spun sugar at Coney Island, being pulled apart in sticky, sparkling fibers. Bucky, who Steve, in a sudden realization, seems to know kind of a _lot_ about where he's sticking his fingers and how to stick 'em just so, sees what he's done and stops right away.   
  
"Sorry." He gruffs out, moving to grab the small mechanical again, but his voice shakes slightly. All Steve can reply with is a guttural sound.   
  
He succeeds in getting it hooked between two fingers, crooking them at the knuckle in the act, which nearly sets Steve off again. Bucky's other hand is still against his mouth, and the sweat of his palm salts the rosebud skin of his lips. "Sorry, pal."   
  
And then with a strange sucking sensation, he's pulling the probe out with dexterity. There's a bit of discomfort as its blunt edges scrape against his anus, but then it slides out with a soft sound, and Bucky draws back his other hand. Steve gasps for air with his mouth uncovered, and curls forward, forehead attempting to touch his knees. He never even sees it. Bucky makes sure its gone the second its out.   
  
After he tosses the plant on the floor and stomps it with one of his heavy boots, Bucky notices him trying to draw in on himself, and curses softly. He rubs delicate circles with his short nails against Steve's back.

 

"Hey, Stevie. It's over now... We're done. You did it, you did a great job."

 

Steve resists the urge to turn on his side and bury his face into Bucky's chest as he keeps talking, because he'd be able to feel the rock solid member between Steve's legs. All of this is too much, he can’t think.

 

"I didn't hurt ya too bad, did I? They put the son of a bitch pretty deep." Steve shakes his head without a word. "Right, good. And I, uh... I know you're not, I mean if anyone were to ask I'd tell 'em it was just- We weren't..." Bucky interjects with another foul mouthed hiss, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. Steve waits.   
  
"I know you're not a fuckin' pansy. You ain't no fairy just because of what I-" Bucky's voice cracks, and Steve still cannot bear to turn around.   
  
Is Bucky saying he knows? If Bucky's trying to convince himself Steve hasn't contaminated him, he'll die here and now. He always used to joke about Steve passing on his sick whenever he fell ill, but this is something else, the one thing the serum couldn't, didn't, cure. So he knows, just like he knows how everyone else saw him growing up was wrong, that it isn't something he could pass along, because it's not a disease. It's just how he is. Bucky is his best guy, he can't lose him over this now. But he has to tell the truth.   
  
"Bucky." Steve says softly, so softly.   
  
A sniff. "What?"   
  
"I- Please don't... What if I... liked it?"   
  
"Liked it?" He repeats in a stunned whisper. They're both whispering now.   
  
Steve nods, feeling the blush heat his face. "What If I didn't want you to stop?" Bucky could find any number of excuses for how his best friend's reacted, but Steve's just laid himself bare. He loved it, he wanted it, he still craves it, Bucky's fingers drilling his guts to pieces, Bucky's hands working down his body in a gentle caress.   
  
They're so close not an inch of them isn't touching, but Bucky still sounds shy. "Really? But you aren't- You 'n Peggy..."   
  
"Does It matter what I am? Does it really? Bucky, please, don't think about it so much... Please, just... please. I liked it. I want it." I want _you_ . I like _you_ . I _love_ you. Steve knows now. It's beyond perversion or anything else they'd try to force him to accept. This isn't just some freak accident and it isn't just a sin. It's love, bright and pure and clear as water from the Alsace stream, tumbling over and shining all the rocks with its elixir. He loves Bucky Barnes. And right now, he wants Bucky Barnes to touch him. He doesn't stop to think about what it means if Bucky wants to touch him back.   
  
Bucky nods, and then his hands are, blessedly back upon Steve. He doesn't ask if Steve's sure; Bucky still trusts his word the first time he says it. The fingers move back in, stretching and exploring. This time, there's nothing to find, so his searching digits touch every inch and press and dip. Carefully, so carefully he moves them around, in and out, spreading Steve open. He shivers with it, feeling the cooling sweat and the dampness pooling beneath his thighs. Barnes uses one hand to pull his shirt over his head, and it feels like Steve's skin brazes him with the heat of it all any time their shoulders brush. Bucky's other hand dips into his mouth this time, and as Steve laps at his fingers, he gently thumbs his lower lip, like it's a promise. His reeling brain flashes back to that one quick kiss, shared across a moving car, the sticky smear of lipstick that left a wine stain upon his tongue. Would Bucky taste the same as she had? The comparison alone makes him crave to taste them both once, then once again, for good measure.   
  
Steve wishes he could turn around, that his ass wasn't still raised against his best friend, that he could squeeze in closer, like when they shared a bed, sliding his hips against him accidentally in the night. But it's better this way. Steve isn't sure what he'd find if he turned around, in Bucky's eyes, and whatever it was, if he would be ready to face it. Bucky is his everything, it's always passed between them with an unspoken intensity. Meeting it head on, right now, might be too much to handle.   
  
Or he wishes he were still small, for a second, because then Bucky's warmth would blanket him completely. He always enjoyed that, feeling the way his body could tuck away Steve's own. The way it never made him feel like less. The way Bucky's body protected him, enclosed him in heat. Bucky was his original shield, in those moments. Hot and weighty and all encompassing, offering up his own skin and bones and flesh, he was Steve's original shield.   
  
Bucky's second hand drags down his lip, past his chin, ghosting over his chest. The edge of his palm brushes over the fine hair trailing down between his hips, before slick fingers close over his thrumming length. Steve's aborted sob is muffled as he drives his face into his shitty military grade pillow. Bucky hushes him, tugging up and down in slow movements. He thumbs over the head, wet with pre-come, his others fingers still nestled against Steve's ass and Steve shudders again. He's not gonna last long.   
  
"Buck," He grits out, eyes squeezed shut. "I can't-"   
  
"Shh." Bucky soothes him, even as he starts to pump his shaft faster, stronger, better. "'M gonna take care of you."   
  
Now the dew at the corner of his eyes really does trickle down his cheeks. His nerves zing like a live wire against his bones as he feels himself edging closer to the climax.   
  
Bucky sidles up around him, curving his leg over the jut of Steve's hip. Through the pea green fabric, plastered to his thighs like a sweated skin, Steve feels something thickly solid bump against the back of his leg. They both stall in their frantic revolutions, Bucky because he picks up on the fact that Steve's frozen up like someone just threw him into the icy locker of that meat truck heading back from Coney Island again.   
  
"Stevie?" His voice rasps in the back of his throat.   
  
Rogers' mind is still stuck on that split second brush against him, the way Bucky's hips seemed to press harder after contact of their own accord. Bucky's hand gives him a concerned squeeze. And that's about all it takes to finish Steve off. He climaxes with a powerful moan, reaching back one armed, blindly grasping-- an eyebrow, the nose, the jawline-- with trembling fingers.   
  
When the spinning that comes once he pries open his wet eyes subsides, Steve tears his hand away from Bucky's face. Bucky still strokes Steve's dick, now soft and ripe with oversensitivity, meaning that every so often he'll tightly clamp his thighs. They don't speak, and after an eternity in all of twenty seconds, Steve moves abruptly to grab the white cloth he sometimes uses to wipe the sweat from his face when he has his coveted nightmares; the ones where all these men, and a woman, he loves, who follow him into the maw of hell because they trust his judgment, lay with their eyes shut in bloodied sleep. And he calls and calls and calls, _it can’t be, you can’t be, goddamnit, Barnes_ ... but not a single one of them wake up.   
  
The cloth is good at sopping up evidence what should not be seen.   
  
He uses it again, after, after he pulls his mouth away from Bucky's pulsing groin and reties the laces of his breeches with sloppy fingers, more unsteady than the ones that pulled them open ten minutes prior.   
  
Bucky pulls back when Steve tries to reach for his hand.   
  
"You-You won't say anything about this to the Colonel?"   
  
Steve's expression goes blank, but his eyes alight with a fire. "No. Why, were you planning on stopping over after artillery checks and inventory?"     
  
Buck scoffs, runs a hand through his rumpled hair. "It was your problem, pal, your call to file a report."   
  
Steve's mouth twists in a way that knifes his best friend's heart. His voice is as soft as his careful ministrations, but with an edge that cleaves Barnes in two. "My _problem_ ?"   
  
"The tracer."   
  
"Right, must have forgot that after all the heavy petting that came after it was destroyed."   
  
Bucky shuts his eyes and breathes out, hard. "An ass-grab, Stevie, that's all this was!" If he says it enough, maybe it’ll stop tasting like a lie.   
  
He steps back, nearing the divide between the woods beyond and the confines of the tent. Gone is the honeyed tone, the ardent caress. Bucky just sounds exasperated, and dead tired.   
  
"Just swappin' cans, right? It's cold, we're lonely, we're horny. Hell, I ain't seen a real girl in months, not since that bar in London. With what we had to do... How could we not be tempted to yark it up a little? You- you needed my help."   
  
Now his voice goes firm, no nonsense. Steve remembers that voice trying to wheedle a peacemaker out of him when he nearly broke his drawing hand one too many times. Or, faintly, through the haze of delirium, more serious than it had ever sounded, commanding him not to die.   
  
Imperative. That's what Peggy called it, that one night she sat drinking Dum Dum's inane "home brew" from pewter mugs, and Dernier tried to get them all to sluggishly practice their French above the crackle of the licking flames. Bucky's tone's _imperative_ . Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. _Just do as I say, got that, Stevie?_   
  
"That's fine. I'm always here, aren't I?" Bucky continues. It sounds like he’s realizing something important. Steve's heart's in his throat. "To help you... It's me. It's always gonna be me. That's alk I am."   
  
And he ducks out of the tent, under the pale morning sky, and wanders off with his gun, alone. Steve chokes on an aborted scream, then after a while, takes a drag off a cigarette.  Watches the bluish smoke trailing out from between his pinched fingers as the morning brightens. What else can he do?   
  
It's not his, the smoke, but Bucky's. In one hand, the cigarette, which he plucked still smoldering from the tray. (It feels good to place his lips where Bucky's had been if he can't put them where they are in the middle of his face or wrap them around the middle of his thighs. The filter is still wet with Buck's saliva.) In the other, the balled up rag he used to clean them off. It's only a little sad Steve wants to unfurl the stained cloth and hand it up like a work of art, scrutinize the thing like he could meet eyes with the painted subject across the crowded gallery floor and parse out the meaning within a gaze. The sticky stuff still clings between his fingers and dries against his thigh. The tent air smells musky and stale in contrast to the fresh wind of morning. Steve can't let go, not yet, can hardly move to rise with roll call, which bleats into the open air, shattering the remnants of their private space, the blanket of their shared exhales which hovered above them like the “largest soap bubble ever” they'd tried to blow using bent up wire hangers and starchy flakes of lye a lifetime ago. The fag burns down to the filter, but he doesn’t drop it in reflex when the embers burn his hand. Even after he's gone, it seems like Steve'll just cling to what Bucky's left behind. The smoke billows out the tent flap. The sun will come up soon. Steve shuts his eyes with a sigh.

**Author's Note:**

> anyways since lex made fun of me for it: this was based off a dream i had. not the smut. just a dream where bucky rescued steve and then because brains are weird they were like omg they put a tracker up his you know where or idk it was just somewhere weird in my dream i remember that..... i might have been high??? lmao idk why ive been posting stuff on here since 2013 but smut freaks me out like omg if someone found all this stuff i write about fictional characters being gay and in love its fine but them having sex??????? aaa like CHILL @ me????????? its a normal part of being an author and if neil gaiman can do it so can i!!! (side eyes american gods) so might as well expose that i use pot (CHRIS IS THAT A WEED) too hjfgsdkjs
> 
> [here's lookin at you kid](https://steverogersapphic.tumblr.com/)


End file.
